More Improper Behaviour
by Maple Fay
Summary: A sequel to "Improper Behaviour", obviously, taking place almost immediately after the trip to York. The story of Elsie Hughes, Terrorist of Downton. Most decidedly a crack!fic, with a generous dose of C/H romance.
1. Chapter 1

_**A/N:** Hello, my dears, did you miss me? I know *I* missed you…_

_I dedicate this story to The Loganites Of Tumblr, and to my dear friend Esther who had expressed an interest in reading about 'Elsie Hughes, the chief terrorist of Downton', and thus fuelled my desire to write a crack fic. I hope you enjoy it!_

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><p><strong>Prologue, or: The Linen Cupboard Musings<strong>

Elsie Hughes had always thought of herself as a person of strong character, showing a remarkable endurance when faced with life's many unpleasant surprises. She would bravely encounter any problem life put on her path, and deal with it with professionalism and grace, rarely letting her private feelings surface and cloud her sound judgment.

This did not mean, however, that she was as cold and unfeeling a person as some of her staff seemed to perceive her for. On the contrary, she _had_ feelings, and whole lot of them—she simply chose to hide them away behind a carefully sculpted mask of propriety and decorum.

Or, to be more exact: she _used to_ hide them away, until about two months ago, when one Charles Carson, her best friend and trusted co-worker as well as the man she'd loved for many years, literally swept her off her feet in a small, cosy inn in York, and showed her _exactly_ what good might come from letting one's true nature take over for a moment. Or an hour. Or possibly the whole night.

She would have lied if she said she did not enjoy the change in their relationship, for enjoyed it she did, and she would never go back to the way things were before those wonderful days they'd spent away from Downton, drinking wine and talking and doing _other things_—things she would from now on associate only with Charles, for no other man could possibly be like him. After having feared to disclose her feelings to him, the way he responded when she finally did made her happier than she ever were, and there was nothing more she could have possibly wanted.

Well… _almost_ nothing.

For there was still one thing that kept her awake at night (at least on the nights she spent alone, and those were considerably fewer than the ones she didn't), or make her bite her lip in frustration as she stared off into space while sitting in her parlour, pretending to sort out the linen rota.

Despite everything that happened to them in York—and everything that _continued_ to happen after they came back to Downton—Elsie wasn't entirely sure what to make of the whole situation.

What was going on with them?, she wondered for what felt like a hundredth time, while flipping absentmindedly through the tablecloths and sheet in the linen cupboard. They acted like a couple of love-struck children, bumping each other's knees under the table during meals, spending every evening either in his pantry or her parlour, sneaking out to meet behind the bicycle shed on the lazy afternoons when most of the staff had gone to the village… If she'd caught one of her maids doing so, she would have to let her go immediately: it was the _most_ improper behaviour, especially in a household like this!

Of course, if she knew that said maid and her 'gentleman caller' really loved each other, took caution not to cause the other any harm or grief, and intended to marry as soon as they'd sorted everything out, she would have probably bent the rules a little, in hope to see the girl happily settled.

And this was where her troubles really began.

Charles had yet to express any inclination towards making an honest woman out of her, as it was.

Initially, she didn't expect him to; after all, there was so much at stake: their respective jobs, their position, the loss of everything they'd worked for during their years in Downton… She believed it best if their liaison remained a secret to the family and the staff, and did not push the matter.

Her resolve began to break after but a week of tiptoeing through the quiet corridors at night, stealing kisses in the wine cellar, and giving Charles many a warning glare when his hand wandered over to her tight under the table. And the reason for that had been given to Elsie by no other person than Lady Mary Crawley herself.

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><p>"This is wonderful, Mrs. Hughes," the woman in question said with awe, brushing the newly finished piece of lace with her fingertips. "You're much too good to me. And I'm afraid we've wasted many of your talents, keeping you here as merely a housekeeper…" She realized her words came out wrong even before Elsie raised an eyebrow at her, and hurriedly added: "That is to say, you must know we respect you very much, and couldn't imagine how this house could possibly function without you! It's just that—I hope you don't regret staying with us, when you clearly could have accomplished so much elsewhere."<p>

Elsie thought this sentiment uncharacteristically kind for Lady Mary, and gave the younger woman a genuine smile in response. "I don't milady," she answered, carefully rearranging the lace pieces and wrapping them in thin paper. "I believe I was very lucky to get a job at Downton—and I'm happy to have stayed here all this time."

Lady Mary nodded, visibly relieved, and went over to her vanity table, idly rearranging some earrings and necklaces. "What about your trip to York? I trust it proved satisfactory?" she asked innocently, not meeting Elsie's eyes.

The housekeeper could feel the proverbial ice beneath her feet grow thin, and carefully measured her reply: "I must say it did, milady. I managed to get some beautiful designs from the lacemaker you'd recommended, and Mr. Carson seemed quite pleased with the wine merchant's offer…"

"Mrs. Hughes," Lady Mary interrupted, turning around and fixing Elsie with a level look, "you know very well this isn't what I'm asking. What's more important, you know that having you get some new ideas for my wedding dress was not my _only_ purpose when I'd arranged for you to go on that trip. So no more avoiding of the subject, please."

Elsie swallowed and felt her cheeks grow hot as she unsuccessfully tried to hide her blush. "And what subject would that be, milady?" she asked, letting the slightest tinge of happiness seep into her voice as her mouth curved into a smile.

"Mrs. Hughes!" Lady Mary clasped a hand against her mouth to stifle a giggle, her eyes sparkling with mischief and joy. Elsie had a hard time suppressing an eye-roll. Honestly, the girl was positively _vibrating_ with cheekiness! Was that what happened to a person when they got engaged? "I hope you know how glad I am. You both deserve this, probably more than anyone."

"I must say I have absolutely no idea what you're talking about, milady," Elsie stated matter-of-factly, while her eyes betrayed her true feelings and conveyed a great—and unexpected—gratitude for the other woman. "And I do dare to hope that this matter, _whatever it may be_, remains private?..."

"Certainly," Lady Mary nodded, sitting gracefully down on her bed. "Although I do not believe anyone in this house would be of a different opinion. Mama and Granny have probably been waiting for Carson to announce his wishes to change his marital status since the moment you arrived at Downton; and Papa would never oppose…"

"With all due respect, Lady Mary," Elsie could feel the control over the conversation slip through her fingers, and made a desperate attempt to reclaim it, "I do not believe things are quite at _that_ stage…"

"Oh, but they will be! Surely they will!" Lady Mary beamed at her, and for once in her life Elsie couldn't find an ounce of any bad feelings for the young woman in her heart. The way she seemed to be completely enthralled by the possibility of Elsie being in a romantic relationship with Charles was… endearing, for the lack of a better word. And yet… she still had troubles believing in the things she was hearing.

Lady Mary could clearly see her hesitation, for she stood up and raised her hands, dismissing any counterarguments in advance. "Trust me, Mrs. Hughes. Carson will be asking for your hand in marriage before the month is over. And rest assured—nobody is going to have anything against the two of you staying here after you have been married. I believe some members of the staff firmly believe you already are."

That certainly did _not_ help the matter, since it left Elsie wondering _which_ members of the staff would that be—and how she could make sure their beliefs did not reach anybody else's ears.

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><p>It's been almost two months since that conversation took place—and nothing has changed during that time. They were still sneaking through the dark corridors and quietly knocking at the other's door; still spending too much time around that damned bicycle shed; still thrilled to spend every moment they could together—not necessarily (though preferably) in a state of undress, but simply <em>being close<em>to one another, talking, working side by side, sipping on wine and tea.

Elsie could easily imagine herself doing this, and just this, until the end of her life.

And she gradually came to realize that she wouldn't have opposed to doing so while being married to Charles.

The problem was—Lady Mary was wrong. Time flew, and he never once mentioned marriage.

The fact itself did not trouble Elsie _that much_. After all, she'd leapt into this relationship without thinking about marrying Charles: it was more than enough for her to know that, being the man he was, he would love and cherish her each and every day whether or not they'd actually wed. She was the woman in his life, the _only_ woman, and the thought itself was enough to keep her happy. Especially since they both had to consider the possibility of losing their jobs, _et caetera, et caetera_…

Only now she knew they _wouldn't_ have lost their jobs, or anything else they'd feared for. Not if Lady Mary had anything to say about it. Or, for that matter, Her Ladyship. Or the Dowager Countess. Sometimes it seemed to Elsie that all the Crawley women had as soft a spot for Charles in their respective hearts as she did.

So, there it was: they _could_ marry if they wished to. And Elsie certainly did. Not for _propriety_ or anything like that, but for the small things—being able to straighten Charles' crooked tie in front of the servants and not having been stared at; sharing a room with him for a whole night on their rare days off; not having to wash motor oil off her dress every other week…

_Being_ a 'Mrs.' instead of being _called_ that.

More than once she contemplated asking Charles about it. She wouldn't tell him anything about what Lady Mary had said, of course not; but perhaps she could find out what his views on the matter were, and slip in a hint or two: assure him that each and every change brought on by their marriage would be a _positive_ one… And yet, despite all the closeness that had developed between them, she couldn't bring herself to do so. After all, who was she to state her feelings so boldly? It would be as if _she_ was asking _him_ to marry her!... Asking? _Ordering_ him to do so, more like!

Elsie sighed and rubbed at her temple, fighting an impending headache. She loved Charles, she really did—but she couldn't, and wouldn't, force him to make such a serious declaration, however much she might have wanted to.

Was it wrong of her to want to marry the man she'd loved for so long? Shouldn't she be happy with knowing what his feelings towards her were, and with all the wonderful ways in which he constantly reminded her of them? Would changing her name to his and wearing a band of gold change everything _that_ significantly?

The answer was simple: yes, it would.

She wanted to be Elsie Carson. To be able to address Charles as 'her husband'. It was as simple as that.

And if one Charles Carson needed 'some help' with realizing that, then help he would get.

In fact, Elsie thought as a sudden idea flashed through her mind, she knew a perfect way to bring this matter to his attention, without incriminating herself as being the one behind it.

Shutting the cupboard door with a new boost of energy, Elsie allowed herself a triumphant smirk as she replaced the key at her waist and headed upstairs.

She had a wedding dress fitting to attend.

**TBC…**


	2. Chapter 2

_**A/N:** Thank you so much for all your kind reviews! I hope you enjoy this chapter, for here starts the crackiness, as Elsie's plot begins to unravel… We are also introduced to the Elsie/Isobel friendship, which I'm shamelessly borrowing from the fanon. Oh, and the last bit of this chapter is a VERY strong "T", bordering on "M". Consider yourselves warned…_

_Let me know what you think!_

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><p><strong>Chapter 1, or: "Downton would fall!"<strong>

Whenever she was surprised, irritated or afraid, Lady Grantham would forget everything she'd learnt about social etiquette while living in Britain, and return to her American ways—which was why she was the first one to react to Elsie's statement, by uttering a sharp gasp of:

"_What?"_

_Bait the hook well, this fish will bite_, Elsie thought, keeping her gaze locked on the pincushion in her hands, despite being painfully aware of four pairs of eyes that were, in turn, locked upon _her_ at that very moment.

"But—you can't!" Lady Edith exclaimed fervently. "This… this simply wouldn't be right! What would we ever do?"

Elsie raised her head and offered the girl a smile, carefully measured in order to seem feeble and weak. Lady Edith was a deeply troubled girl, always standing in the shadow of either one of her sisters and desperately trying to get out into the sun, but she surely had her heart in the right place. That she attended her older sister's dress fitting was pure coincidence—but one that proved to serve Elsie's purpose perfectly.

"I believe it's my only option, milady," she repeated in a small, tired voice. "Things are bound to bring shame and scandal to this household, should they continue the way they are now."

"Nonsense," the Dowager Countess huffed impatiently, the silver tip of her cane tapping forcefully on the wooden floor. It would leave a mark, undoubtedly, and a part of Elsie's mind promptly devoted itself to finding a way to mask it before Charles would see… "There shall be no more talk about this, Mrs. Hughes. And rest assured that Carson shall be given something to think about."

Elsie shook her head ever so slightly, trying to look shaken and doubtful. On the inside, she was humming with silent satisfaction.

Had Charles Carson's unwillingness to propose to her been dictated by his worry regarding the family's opinion on the matter, it should disintegrate completely within days. Had it been related to a different matter… oh, well.

She would at least know where she stood.

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><p>"You did <em>what<em>?" Isobel laughed, covering her mouth with both hands to stifle a giggle highly unsuitable for a woman of her age and position. Elsie rolled her eyes and gave the other woman a smug grin.

"I told them I was considering leaving Downton, for my virtuous heart had been having trouble coping with the fact that I was living in sin, and could easily bring a scandal upon the family."

"With these exact words?"

"Of course not!"

"Well, I still wish I could have been there, and seen Cora's face. Or Cousin Violet's, for that matter," Isobel sighed, frowning, and put her teacup down. "What are you going to do if they approach Charles head on, and simply _tell him_ to marry you?"

Elsie shook her head in amusement. "They'd never do that. Making him 'realize his feelings, and step up', that's more in the style of the Grantham ladies. There's bound to be serious plotting, and many carefully planted hints before any real action takes place, and in the end I'd be surprised if Charles knew what hit him."

Isobel clasped her hands together and leaned forward, her face a perfect picture of wonderment. "Elsie Hughes! When on Earth did you become such an expertly skilled puppeteer?"

Elsie sighed and rubbed her right temple, brushing a stray strand of hair away. "I didn't know I was one until very recently, believe me! It's just… Isobel, I _need_ to know! Lady Mary had been so sure Charles would ask me to marry him in no time at all, and then he didn't, and I—I would like to understand why. If I thought he's not the marrying type, I wouldn't have pushed the matter, but—"

"...but you believe him to be just the opposite of it. No, don't tell me!" she raised her hands in mock outrage. "Ever since you came back from York, you do nothing but sing praise for the man. And I am glad for that, glad for you—he really makes you happy, doesn't he?"

Elsie nodded, grateful for her friend's understanding, and sighed again. "He does. Happier than I ever thought I could be. We've wasted so much time… and I didn't even suspect—"

Isobel smiled and squeezed the other woman's hand reassuringly. "Which is why you couldn't put the matter of the proposal to rest, correct?"

"I tried to reason with myself," Elsie admitted with a small shrug and yet another nervous tug at her hair, "but I've run out of ideas. I couldn't simply walk into his pantry and propose to him myself, could I?"

"I'm sure any man would appreciate a woman such as yourself proposing to them," Isobel smirked unhelpfully, earning herself an eye roll from a very exasperated Elsie. "Alright, alright, I'm sorry. I know you only did what you did out of desperation, not spite."

"Even so, I shouldn't be playing any of them. Charles would be so angry if he found out!"

"Let's just hope he doesn't, then, shall we?"

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><p>Three hours later Elsie was back at Downton Abbey, her afternoon off having run its course. As the family and the Crawleys sat themselves at the dinner table, the housekeeper sneaked into the hallway just outside the door standing ajar. She could have simply gone into the cupboard and pretend to supervise the work of the two new footmen—but since there was good chance of Charles bumping into her as he picked up fresh decanters of wine, she chose the less obvious spot for a lookout.<p>

That meant, however, that she couldn't see Charles' face as the conversation unfolded, which she came to regret deeply around the second course.

"I've had a letter from Lady Chisdale," Lady Cora remarked casually, referring to the wife of one of Lord Grantham's London friends. "They're going to have a wedding in the house this spring."

"A wedding?" Elsie could almost see the Dowager Countess' frown. "I thought their oldest was not sixteen?"

"Oh, it's not their _daughter's_! Their butler is marrying Lady Anne's personal maid."

"I suppose it's going to cause quite a mayhem to the household, isn't it?" Isobel chimed in, sounding perfectly innocent to anyone but Elsie. "Will the couple leave after the wedding? I believe most employees are far from encouraging when it comes to inter-staff marriages…"

"On the contrary, Lady Anne's urging them both to stay in service," Lady Cora answered eagerly. "It's so hard to come across reliable household staff nowadays; letting them go would be a great loss."

"I agree," Lady Mary put in, sounding slightly bored at the topic of the conversation. "I honestly cannot understand why a couple of people in love, who want to make everything proper between them and get married, should be denied the right to do so only because they work as somebody's servants. Would _you_ let O'Brien go if she wanted to marry someone living nearby, and continue to work for you, Mama?"

"I'd like to think that I'd do no such thing," her mother replied matter-of-factly. "What do you think, dear? Would you dismiss one of the older staff, should they wish to pursue a life in marriage?"

"I honestly cannot see Mrs. Patmore or Carson asking for my permission to marry, Cora," Lord Grantham's slightly amused voice carried into the hallway. Elsie bit her lip to stifle a frustrated groan. This was certainly the conversation she'd hoped Charles would overhear, but the way his lordship answered his wife did not bid it well…

"What about Mrs. Hughes, Papa?" Lady Edith has clearly decided to pull of her bit of the plan. "She's quite pretty for her age—" Elsie banged her forehead against the wood-panelled wall, "—she's intelligent and kind… I could easily imagine her having a serious suitor, and leaving us to get married. Would you let _her_ go?"

Before Lord Grantham had a chance to answer that, there was a loud, clinking sound resonating across the dining room, followed by a few female gasps. "Carson, are you having another heart attack?"

"Certainly not, your ladyship," Charles' deep, yet slightly shaking voice reached Elsie's ears, causing her to chuckle under her breath. "Everything is under control."

"I'm glad to hear it. Well, Robert? Your daughter has asked you a rather interesting question. Would you allow your housekeeper to marry and continue to work, or would you rather have her leave?"

"Mama, please, what a ghastly prospect! Have Mrs. Hughes leave Downton Abbey? The house would probably collapse over our heads within weeks!"

"You'd agree, then, if she wanted to marry, like Lady Chisdale's maid?" Lady Edith pressed on, sounding genuinely interested in the answer.

Elsie held her breath.

"I suppose I would, unlikely as the prospect seems to me—"

The rest of Lord Grantham's words was flooded by a wave of protests and outraged exclamations, but Elsie had already heard everything she wanted to. She turned on her heel and walked away from the door, heading downstairs, a small, yet very bright smile playing on her lips.

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><p>She retired upstairs before the family finished their evening cocktail, and was on the verge of falling asleep, curled on her side facing away from the door, when she heard the unmistakable sound of the doorknob being turned. She didn't move, tensed in anticipation, and held her breath to catch all of the quiet noises he made, shutting the door and slipping his robe off, before the mattress dipped beneath his weight and she felt him, all of him—the wonderful, warm body spooning hers as his arms slipped around her waist.<p>

She still hadn't got over the way they fit together: him so much bigger than her, making her feel fragile, breakable, yet perfectly safe at the same time. She murmured, arching her back and pressing it against his chest, leaning deeper into his embrace. He chuckled happily, nuzzling at the nape of her neck.

"I've missed you downstairs after dinner," he whispered, his voice deep and heavy with lust and love. "They'd had a particularly nice red tonight. I thought we'd share a glass before bed."

"Should we get up and go back down?" she asked teasingly, sliding her hands over his as they rose to cup her breasts.

"Not even for that German nectar we had in York," he answered, kissing down her neck as his thumbs brushed her nipples through the fabric of her nightdress, over and over again, driving her mad with need. "No, stay," he protested as she tried to turn in his arms to face him, and one of his hands travelled down her leg, bunching the material and drawing small circles on her skin as it moved back up tantalizingly slow…

She shuddered and moaned quietly when he entered her, one hand resting possessively on her hip, the other wrapped around her torso. He moved ever so slowly at first, whispering sweet nothings into her hair and placing little kisses on her neck and shoulders, until she decided they'd had enough of teasing for one night.

"Charles," she breathed, arching her neck backwards to capture his lips, and clenching her inner muscles in a way she knew was bound to have him come undone. He growled and bit her shoulder, quickening his pace.

From there on it was all breaths and quiet moans, names being whispered and fingers clawing at hot, sweaty skin, and a beautiful, powerful moment when Elsie saw bright white sparks before her eyes and tumbled across the edge, pulling Charles with her.

He never stopped saying her name, not until their heartbeats slowed, and they lay, breathless, motionless and still joined, basking in the afterglow.

"I could spend the rest of my life doing this, and just this, to you," he murmured into her ear, and kissed her cheek. "I love you, Elsie."

"I love you too, Charles," she answered happily, and held her breath, wondering if such a tender admission of his feelings could have possibly been a prelude to something else—asking her a very serious and significant question, perhaps?—but as the seconds passed she realized that Charles' breath had become much deeper and more regular. Surely enough, he soon began to emit the quiet, gentle snores, and she knew he'd fallen asleep.

Elsie sighed, not with disappointment—one could hardly be disappointed when one's bones were still quite liquid from a round of exquisite lovemaking—but with something akin to quiet resignation.

_At least he knows where we would stand, should we choose to marry_, she told herself, snuggling closer into Charles' embrace. _And wasn't that precisely what I wanted?_

He made her so happy. Not only by doing what they'd just done, but also by staying with her afterwards, even though it would have been much more reasonable for him to get up and go back to his room now rather than wait until the morning. By murmuring her name in his sleep. By supporting her, or standing up to her, whenever the situation required one of the two. He was so much more than just her best friend, or her lover—he felt like the missing part of her soul.

And one didn't need to marry a part of their own soul to feel happy.

At least that what she'd keep on telling herself from now on…

**TBC…**


	3. Chapter 3

_**A/N:** Thank you very, very much for all the lovely reviews! I'm sorry to have kept you waiting for the update—comedy fics are tricky little things, so I didn't want to rush and force myself to write… Let's just see how it turned out, shall we?_

_There's been some talk of a St. Patrick's Day related challenge, so I decided to kill two birds with one stone and incorporate some of it into this chapter. Enjoy!_

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><p><strong>Chapter 2, or: Raise your glass if you are wrong…<strong>

The following month was by far the most trying one in Elsie's life up to date.

First, on the next morning, there was Lord Grantham, giving her a very thorough once-over as they exchanged their morning greetings in the corridor. The thoughtful, pensive look on his face told Elsie that he was most probably trying to look at her with fresh eyes, and find all the qualities his daughter had spoken of the night before—starting from the 'prettiness'.

And judging from a little sparkle of his eyes, he's probably found something.

"Have you changed your hair, Mrs. Hughes?"

She couldn't have been more surprised if he asked her about the linen rota. "I—yes, milord, I have." Which was true enough: she finally managed to get the lemon-and-lavender conditioner proportions just right, and tame her curls just a fraction better, leaving her hair sleeker and straighter than usual.

(Charles did not approve of it. He would always prefer her hair wild and untamed, spreading on the pillow or fanned across his chest like a halo—or so he said. Elsie appreciated the sentiment, but only allowed him this particular indulgence on the nights preceding her days off.)

"Ah. Well, I must say it suits you very well indeed." Having said that, Lord Grantham cleared his throat and marched off, his cheeks blushed like those of a schoolboy who'd just complimented his favourite teacher, leaving Elsie in the middle of the second floor corridor, gaping at the wall with a stunned expression on her face.

It was a good thing that his lordship was not one of the aristocrats prone to take fancy in servant girls. That thought alone let Elsie go about her daily duties with fairly clear mind, instead of barricading herself in the wine cellar, with or without a certain butler.

* * *

><p>"Mrs. Hughes! A moment, if you will?"<p>

Here it comes, Elsie thought morosely as she deposited a freshly pressed table cloth into Anna's arms, and entered the drawing room instead of the dining room she was heading for. "Your ladyship?"

Lady Grantham bid her housekeeper to enter the room occupied by herself, her mother-in-law and her two daughters, and leaned forward in anticipation. "Well? Is there anything you'd like to inform us about?"

Elsie cringed inwardly and pulled her lips into a small, polite smile. "Nothing out of the ordinary, milady. The cleaning of the small library seems to be going on faster than I'd anticipated, so I'll be granting Anna that half-day off she'd requested on Wednesday. She wishes to visit Mr. Bates."

"Of course," Lady Grantham nodded solemnly. "I do wish it all didn't take so long…"

Which had the Dowager Countess expressing her opinion on lawyers in general—"Not including dear Matthew, of course not, Mary, there's no need to give me that look!"—and allowed Elsie to slip out of the room unnoticed, before anyone else managed to press on the matter of her engagement, or lack thereof.

She couldn't face talking about it just yet.

* * *

><p>She needed to keep it together. Stay rational. Stay focused.<p>

She couldn't possibly, not when he was doing _this_ to her.

"Charles," she whispered urgently, clawing at his shoulders, "we really shouldn't, not now—"

"Nonsense," he answered, dragging his teeth along her earlobe. "We have plenty of time before—"

"Mr. Carson! The delivery is here! Mr. Carson?..."

Elsie groaned in frustration, pushing Charles away and fixing him with a level stare. "You were saying?"

He rolled his eyes, kissed her hair and straightened out his waistcoat before stepping out from behind the bicycle shed with as much dignity as he could muster, given the type of activities he'd been participating in until a moment ago. "There's no need to shout, Daisy. Where is that boy? Doesn't he have an invoice for me to sign?"

Elsie adjusted all parts of underclothing that got repositioned during the last few minutes, rearranged her ruffled skirts and rested her head against the wooden wall. The sky was bright and blue over her head, and a warm wind was blowing, bringing with it the damp, fresh smell of the spring. It was the middle of March, and the household was in an uproar: having recently won in a short, yet strenuous libel suit against sir Richard, Lady Mary and Mr. Crawley decided to get married as soon as possible, and so everything had to be done at once, or possibly last week. Every living soul in Downton was on their feet sixteen hours a day—even more if you happened to be the butler or the housekeeper, and had to at least pretend to have everything under control.

And still, they sneaked out of the house and were about to engage in highly inappropriate activities in the welcoming shadows behind the shed. And, what was even more important in this given situation, it was _Charles'_ idea, not hers.

He had become quite… insistent, Elsie mused, ever since that dinner three weeks ago when her 'womanly qualities' and marriage perspectives had been so openly discussed by the family. It was as if the conversation broke a dam inside Charles Carson's mind, and made him even more tender and passionate (not to mention _eager_) a lover than before.

Perhaps it was some form of a compensation—since he never picked up the topic of marriage.

Elsie groaned, angry at herself for brooding over the subject yet again. It made no sense at all—clearly there was something in Charles that stopped him from asking her to marry him, and it would do no good to try and force him into it. She should have accepted it by now.

"Mrs. Hughes?"

She all but fell down from an old upturned crate she was perched upon, and stifled a scream as she turned to Anna, who had just rounded the corner of the shed. "What is it now?" she asked, her voice a tad harder than she wished. "And how did you know I was here?"

The look on Anna's face told her she'd rather not know the answer to the latter question. "It's that package from Ireland, Mrs. Hughes. There's a bit in there for the servants, too, and Mr. Carson said we won't decide what to do with it unless you're there…"

Glad for the distraction, Elsie hopped off the crate inelegantly and brushed at her skirt. "Well, let's go, then. Whatever could the Bransons have sent us…?"

* * *

><p>"Guinness," Thomas said, gently sliding his thumb over the label. "A real, Dublin-brewed Guinness. Two whole boxes of it."<p>

Miss O'Brien and Mrs. Patmore stepped closer to the valet, all but grasping at his cuffs. Daisy frowned, not at all impressed by the contents of the box.

"Is just ale, it is," she pointed out, wiping her hands with her apron. The other three stared at her incredulously. "Why are you making so much fuss over an ale?"

"Guinness 's no _ale_," Miss O'Brien said, taking the bottle out of Thomas' hands. "It's a _stout_, and a damn good one, too. It's very nice of Branson to send us some for St. Paddy's—"

"It's _Mr._ Branson now, Miss O'Brien, kindly remember that," Charles' deep voice resonated across the servants' hall, and Elsie did her best not to close her eyes and moan, remembering how this voice sounded like when whispering certain private words into her ear mere minutes before. "I do agree that his generosity deserves all possible praise, though, and we shall do his present due credit—_after_ dinner. Now, put the bottles back into the box. I shall take care of the lot until the evening, and make sure it's fairly distributed."

"Yes, Mr. Carson," said Thomas with a sour expression, and marched off after the butler, carrying the precious box like a baby in his arms. Elsie rolled her eyes at the small procession, and stepped into her parlour to get out of their way.

Frankly speaking, she didn't quite understand the whole fuss about the drink. She wasn't exactly a beer-person; alcohol didn't play an important part in her life, and if she drank at all, she was partial either to wine (preferably selected by Charles) or to some gin—though only in a pub and on rare occasions she deemed 'special'. She had, naturally, tasted both lager and stout, but she enjoyed neither, and so the contents of the package did not seem particularly desirable to her.

_Oh, well. At least the staff will have a pleasant evening…_

* * *

><p>"Don't count me in, Charles," she pleaded, putting her feet up on a stool as she sat curled up in an armchair in the butler's pantry after dinner that same night, watching Charles calculate the exact quota of beer. "There are others who'd appreciate it more than I."<p>

He frowned at her, putting his pencil down. "Are you trying to tell me you don't like it, Elsie?"

"Not particularly. It's far too bitter and heavy for my taste."

"That simply means you haven't had it served to you the right way," he stated definitively. "A serious mistake, and one I'd be more than happy to correct." He stood up and extended his arms, beckoning her to walk into them and snuggle tightly against his chest. "You should relax, and have a pleasant evening, my love. Especially after we'd been so rudely interrupted…"

She sighed fondly at the memory of the actions interrupted by Daisy's call, and inhaled the sharp, fresh scent of Charles' cologne. "I was hoping we might try to recreate the scene sometime in the near future?..."

"That," he smiled at her mischievously, tightening his grip on her bottom, "we shall. But not before we teach you to appreciate the fine art of Irish brewing."

* * *

><p>Charles Carson turned out to be an excellent teacher.<p>

By the time she'd had her second glass, Elsie couldn't for the love of her life remember what it was _exactly_ that she found so repulsive about the drink. Perhaps it was the blackcurrant syrup that Charles asked Mrs. Patmore to mix into the stout, perhaps it was simply the exhaustion of the last few days taking its toll—either way, Elsie found herself enjoying the beverage more and more with every passing minute. She took another sip from her glass and looked around the table. Everyone seemed to be enjoying themselves, taking as much as they could from the unusual moment of peace and quiet. The stout must have had some sedative qualities, for even Thomas and O'Brien refrained from uttering their trademark cutting remarks, and sat together, nursing their half-pints with awe. Daisy, who had only been given half a glass upon Mrs. Patmore's insistence, was still waiting for the foam to settle. The cook, on the other hand, was on her fourth glass, and the colours of her cheeks and hair were starting to match. Hauling her up the stairs wasn't going to be an easy task.

"I can't believe we're going to have a wedding here in a week's time," Rosie, one of the younger maids, said dreamily, leaning on the table. "Weddings are so pretty, aren't they? Everyone should have at least one."

There was a collective hum of accord and appreciation from the side of the table occupied by the younger staff. Elsie fixed her eyes on the glass before her, trying to ignore the conversation and focus on imagining what the rest of her evening would look like. They could wait until everybody went upstairs, make sure that Mrs. Patmore was safely tucked into bed, and come back down to…

"Mrs. Hughes?"

She had absolutely no idea what she'd been asked. She turned to Rosie and raised an eyebrow in her best 'don't-disturb-the-Scottish-dragon' look.

The Guinness must have taken its toll, for Rosie didn't look nearly as frightened as she should have been. "Would youlike to have a wedding, Mrs. Hughes? To be married?"

The whole room turned eerily quiet. Elsie could feel eyes upon herself—sarcastic glares of Thomas and O'Brien, compassionate one of Anna, hardly conscious, yet still cheeky and defensive one of Mrs. Patmore—the attention of the whole assembly seemed to have focused on her.

_Almost_ whole.

Charles was looking down at his hands, resting on the tabletop. He didn't scold Rosie for asking for a straightforward, not to mention deeply private, question. He didn't put the girl in her place. For some reason, he chose not to interfere.

Was it because he was genuinely interested in hearing Elsie's answer? And if so, why did it have to be a young housemaid who _asked_ her this in the first place?

Or perhaps he really didn't care?...

It might have been the copious amounts of beer she'd imbibed, or the workload making her more sensitive than usual, or the frustration that had been accumulating since the afternoon: but when Elsie finally answered the girl, it was not with an order to mind her own business, but with another question:

"I suppose _you_ would, wouldn't you, Rosie?"

The young maid nodded eagerly and smiled, her face red from the drink. "Oh, yes, Mrs. Hughes, I'd get married in a trice!"

Elsie smiled a very sad smile and pursed her lips. "And yet you _do _realize that you cannot get married to yourself, and you'd need to find yourself a proper young man first? One that would love and cherish you, support and challenge you, understand and respect you, and, most important of all, _be willing to marry you_?"

Elsie didn't think it possible, but the silence in the room deepened significantly. She knew there was a bite and an edge audible in her voice, and from the way Rosie's cheeks turned an even more profound shade of scarlet, she realized she might have been too hard on the girl.

At least she got some of the weight off her chest.

Standing up, she smiled another unhappy smile at the girl, now clearly regretting her previous boldness. "Such a man is incredibly difficult to find, Rosie. I wish you all the luck in your quest, should you wish to accomplish that. I have yet to do so, as you can clearly see. Goodnight."

She crossed the room and went into the kitchen, rinsing the glass out of habit more than necessity, made sure the door to her parlour was locked, and headed upstairs, biting her lower lip hard enough to draw blood.

It stopped her from crying until she was safe inside her bedroom, swiftly discarding her clothes and burying herself under the covers.

She cried quietly, her shoulders shaking, straining her ears to hear Charles' footsteps in the corridor, wanting nothing else but to be held by him, wrapped in his arms and feeling safe and calm for the first time in many days.

* * *

><p>Her pillow was soaked through with tears by the time she finally fell asleep, alone.<p>

* * *

><p><strong>TBC…<strong>


	4. Chapter 4

_**A/N: **Thank you for all the wonderful reviews, you've been most kind to me… I don't think I deserve it!_

_This chapter has been somewhat inspired by Lovisa Cansino's dream. I'm using parts of said dream with her kind permission._

_Perhaps I should point out that the **next** chapter will be the last, and the rating might end up closer to M again… Does anyone mind?_

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 3, or: Silence is <em>not<em> golden**

"Oh, Mrs. Hughes… it's wonderful! When did you ever find the time?"

Elsie smiled sadly in response, and brushed some imaginary dust off the fabric. "I found myself looking for things to do this past week, milady."

Lady Mary looked down at the beautiful, lace-trimmed veil and sighed deeply. "Mrs. Hughes… I know we don't always see eye to eye, but I would like you to know that—I'm very sorry. I never thought—"

"Neither did I," Elsie cut in, determined to keep the conversation short and impersonal. Delving into the fact that she had neither spoken to Charles nor spent any time alone with him since the ill-fated celebration of St. Patrick's Day, was _not_ on her agenda for the day.

Getting through the wedding unscathed, on the other hand, was.

She turned back to the task at hand, that is: aligning the ruffles on the wedding dress, and pinning the veil to Lady Mary's dark curls. Lady Grantham, currently occupied with attending to her American relatives, would join them in a moment and take over, but Elsie wished to see everything through till the end. It would at least keep her hands occupied, and blur the edges of despair residing in her heart.

"I like this dress," Lady Mary said, clearly uncomfortable with the forced silence. "Is it new?"

Elsie looked down at the pale-green frock with appreciation. "Actually, Mrs. Crawley was kind enough to lend it to me."

"You should consider not giving it back, then. I could make some excuses for you."

"That's… very generous of you, milady, but I have to decline."

"At least wear this with it, if you will."

Elsie looked down at the tear-shaped crystal pendent on a fine silver chain, and drew in a shaky breath. "Thank you, milady, it's very kind of you."

"Nonsense. You should be pretty today, Mrs. Hughes. For yourself… if not for anything else."

* * *

><p>By the time she reached the church, she felt a little as if it was <em>her<em>wedding. And it hurt even more.

Everybody seemed to have made it their mission to make sure she looked astoundingly pretty. When she went down to the kitchen to inspect the maids' outfits, Miss O'Brien even gave her two rosebuds to pin on her hat, and Mrs. Patmore complimented the shade of her (borrowed) dress.

Elsie was starting to feel like a victim of some vicious scheme. This was all too good to be true.

And now she was standing in the crowd occupying the back of the church, watching Lady Mary Crawley marrying the man she'd loved for years, and felt numb, numb and cold, as if somebody replaced her heart with a chunk of ice.

She let everyone walk past her as the happy couple exited into the sun, and hovered in the emptied building, half-listening to the laughter and cheers outside, clenching her gloved hands into fists over and over again.

She wouldn't cry. Not yet, not until she was back in her room, as cold and empty as her heart.

It served her right, wanting too much, pushing too hard, when things had been so wonderful, and… No, she shouldn't go _there_ again, not if she was to supervise the reception back home.

The noise outside died down a little. Elsie let out one last sigh and turned on her heel, walking briskly towards the door in hope to catch up with the crowd before the servants reached the house.

She opened the half-closed door, and wrinkled her nose as the sun shone straight in her face.

There was a faint, whooshing sound, and something light and soft hit her squarely on the chest.

She held out her arms instinctively, blinked against the bright light—and found herself cradling an armful of a wedding bouquet, as the cheers erupted all around her.

This was how a rabbit caught in a battue must feel, Elsie decided as she looked at the cheerful assembly. The Crawleys, their wedding guests, the servants—everybody was there, clapping and hooting, and apparently having a great time watching her embarrassed expression, and the way the pale green of her dress accentuated the brick red of her complexion. She managed a weak smile and stepped forward, extending the bouquet to Lady Mary.

"Forgive me, milady—I believe you dropped something."

Mr. Crawley laughed and patted her arm gently, pushing the flowers away. "It's a tradition, Mrs. Hughes. The fate chose you. Keep them; you never know what's in store, do you?"

"I have a fairly good idea, sir. The 'tradition' is likely to be wasted on me—but since you insist, I won't offend you with declining." She brought the pale pink roses to her face and inhaled their sweet, delicate scent, suddenly feeling positively giddy, and no longer caring for propriety. "These are wonderful, thank you. Now, if you excuse me, I need to make sure your reception is as perfect as the service has been…"

* * *

><p>Four hours later, she still hadn't had the time to put the flowers in a vase. They were going to waste away, lying abandoned on her desk: much like her own chances for a happy marriage had done.<p>

Elsie found it rather appropriate, though very, very sad.

She spent the afternoon walking between the rooms on the ground floor, the terrace and the kitchen, scolding overly chirpy maids, adjusting tablecloths, making sure the guests had enough food and drink, overseeing everything and every now and then fixing Thomas with a level glare to let him know she knew _exactly_ how many glasses of wine he'd managed to gulp at.

She was glad to be busy: especially since she seemed to be choosing all the right places to be, for she never once bumped into Charles. She didn't think she could face him, not on this day.

"Mrs. Hughes?"

She turned to Anna, checking for any signs of sadness or exhaustion in the girl's face—but no, Anna was a brave, strong woman, and she wouldn't let her mistress' wedding ruin her mood, not even when her own husband was imprisoned for a murder he didn't commit. "What is it, Anna? Have we lost anymore glasses?"

"Oh, no, Rosie has paid attention after the first time… It's Mrs. Patmore. I thought I saw her go into your parlour when I was downstairs a moment ago, muttering something about the store cupboard key…"

Elsie felt her blood boil. The key was safely attached to the hoop at her waist, but if that _bleeding_ woman did something to her flowers… "Can you manage here alone for a moment, Anna? I won't be long."

"Of course, Mrs. Hughes. Take as long as you need."

There was something peculiar about the girl's smile, but there was no time to ponder over that—a cook in a rampage was never a good thing to deal with. Elsie cast one last glance at the wedding guests, and headed downstairs.

* * *

><p>The door to her parlour stood ajar, and it only aggravated Elsie further. She pushed at the door with slightly more force than necessary. "Now, Mrs. Patmore, kindly explain what on <em>Earth<em>are you doing—"

She stopped dead in her tracks.

It wasn't Mrs. Patmore invading her parlour.

It was Charles.

He stood by her desk, running his fingertips over the delicate petals of Lady Mary's roses—_Elsie's_ roses—which were no longer thrown across the accounting books and notes, but placed in a crystal vase, obviously borrowed from upstairs. When she opened the door, he quickly withdrew his hand and stood at attention, the tips of his ears turning pink. "Elsie, I—"

She was furious. She'd been tricked to come down here, in the middle of a very important day, and what for? To have him say her name for the first time in… how many days, exactly? Seven? Eight? To see that he'd put her flowers in water, like an obedient lady's maid would?

What _was_ he playing at?

She would have none of this, not today of all the days.

"Excuse me, _Mr. Carson_," she interrupted him with a bite in her voice, "but I don't have time for this conversation just now. As you may have noticed, the house is in quite an uproar, and _somebody_ should try to control it all: especially since it looks like the butler has forgotten his duties, and decided to lurk downstairs instead of tending to the guests. I'll be heading upstairs now, and I recommend you do the same!"

She turned on her heel, ready to rush out of the room and run up the stairs if necessary, but he stopped her, grasping her left elbow and turning her back towards him. "No, Elsie, please—I have cleared this with his lordship, it's perfectly alright if we stay here a moment longer, and… I have something to say to you." He sighed and ran his free hand through his hair, mussing it terribly. "Would you please listen to me? I know I have no right to ask this of you, but—"

Angry as she was at him, she didn't appreciate a grovelling man. "Fine," she spat, relaxing her shoulders a fraction and crossing her arms before her. "Whatever can be so important as to have you leave the wedding reception of Lady Mary, of all the people?"

"You."

She blinked and frowned. "I beg your pardon?"

Charles let out after deep sigh and pulled her towards him, putting both his hands on her elbows. "Elsie, I know I have hurt you, and I cannot begin to tell you how bad it makes me feel. I didn't know what else to do, I…"

Elsie swallowed heavily, fighting back the tears. "You simply could have told me, Charles. You could have said you didn't want to, that it would complicate your life, both our lives, if we did, and I would have… well, maybe I wouldn't have _understood_, not right away, but… I like to think I'd learn to live with it…"

He gaped at her, furrowing his brows. "Lived with what, exactly? Elsie, what in Heaven's name are you on about?"

"I'm talking about you… not wanting to get married to me."

"But, Elsie—I _want _to marry you!"

* * *

><p>It was her turn to gape. She felt her knees go weak, and leaned against the door, closing it firmly with her weight. This was too much. Something <em>had<em>to be wrong with the world, or with her: she couldn't be hearing these words, not could she?

"…you do?"

Charles chuckled and slid his hands down her arms, closing her smaller hands in his. "Of course I do. How could you ever doubt it? I was simply waiting for this…"

He fished around in his pocket, and produced a small box covered in black velvet, which upon opening revealing a ring: a band of gold with a single, blue-and-green stone.

It was quite simple, and by no means looked expensive, but it was elegant and unique in its form.

It was by far the most beautiful piece of jewellery Elsie had ever seen, and it took her breath away.

After what seemed an eternity of silence, Charles cleared his throat and raised her right hand to his lips. "Elsie Hughes, love of my life: would you make me the happiest man on Earth, and become my wife?"

She looked from the ring to his face. And back. And again. Something very strange was going on here.

"Are you trying to tell me," she said carefully, trying to control a tantrum of emotions rising in her, "that you put me through all this misery and sorrow—that you had me crying my heart out _every single night_ for the past week—that you let me feel completely abandoned—because you were_ waiting for a ring to be delivered?_"

Charles' ears were now completely pink, and the tops of his cheeks started to change colour as well. "Elsie, please let me explain… it's a little more complicated than this."

She slid her hand away from his grasp and crossed her arms again. "I'm listening."

Charles sighed and looked down, clearly embarrassed. "You see, this was my mother's ring: the most valuable thing she'd ever owned. When I left home to… _perform_… I took it with me, just as a precaution. I never meant to part with it.

"I'm sorry to say I was forced to pawn it pretty soon, and I never got round to buying it back. When I came back to Downton, my mother was so glad to see me that she forgave me for taking it, and we forgot about it for years. Only years later, shortly before she passed away, she made me promise I'd find it, and give it to the woman I chose to marry.

"I haven't thought about it for years—I mean, I _have_, when I first met you, but then we became friends, and we never talked about… You know very well how it turned out."

Elsie nodded, all too painfully aware of all the years they'd wasted. "So, what changed?"

"Our trip to York, when we… came to an understanding: it made me realize _you_ were the only woman I could ever give this ring to. So I started writing letters—I must have contacted four dozens of pawn-shop owners in London before I found it, but I did: and here it is now, yours for the taking, as it always should have been…"

Elsie blinked. She rubbed her eyes with her thumb and forefinger. She pressed a hand against her lips to stifle a wail. "So you knew you were going to propose to me—even without Lord Grantham stating so boldly that he wouldn't mind if you—if we—married?"

"Yes."

"And you were only waiting for some pawnbroker to send you news on your mother's ring?"

"I was, yes."

"_Then why haven't you told me anything?_"

Charles' face turned beetroot red, and he wouldn't meet her eyes. A wise decision, since he'd most probably burn to a crisp if he did. "I wanted to do it all properly, Elsie…"

"By making me think you didn't love me enough to marry me? By putting me through all this suffering?"

He didn't have an answer to that. She would have been surprised if he did.

"Charles Carson, you might just be the greatest fool I have ever met."

He sighed, nodding miserably, eyes still fixed on the floor. "I know. I can only hope you'd forgive me one day, and grant me your friendship again… for I do believe this is a 'no'?"

"No, it's not."

He finally raised his head, looking at her with hope and disbelief. "It isn't?"

"Of course not." She reached out and pulled him to her by his tie. "If I didn't marry you, who would be there to make sure you didn't lose your way in the world like a child in the fog?"

The smile on his face was the most beautiful thing she'd seen all week.

Or perhaps all her life.

"Elsie," he murmured, and leaned in to kiss her hair. "My dear, darling, lovely Elsie…"

She stopped his hand as he fumbled with the ring, and closed the box shut, putting it back in his pocket. "We can take care of the formalities later, Charles."

"But—" he protested weakly, but shut right up as she ran her hands across his chest and undid his tie.

"Later," she repeated firmly, pulling him closer to her and she leaned against the door. "As of now, I'm in a _pressing_ need for you to prove to me exactly _how much_ you love me—I believe your negotiations with Lord Grantham have granted us more than just five minutes of time?..."

* * *

><p>As it turned out, they have.<p>

And he apparently loved her _a lot_.

**TBC…**


	5. Chapter 5

_**A/N: **Well, all the good things (and I humbly think of this story as 'not so bad') must come an end someday… so this is the final chapter. As I said before, this is more an 'M' than a 'T', so if that offends you, please stop right there and read no more._

_(Also, I have initially thought of doing something a little more… shall we say, 'traditional', in this chapter, but then my wickedness, and the overall crackiness of the fic, took over.)_

_Thank you for all the reviews, alerts and favourites: you're all wonderful, precious people, and I'm glad you found this story plausible and pleasurable enough to keep reading. I'll be seeing you! (I hope…)_

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 4, or: Open the door and lay down on the bed…<strong>

August 1920

Elsie tossed and turned for hours, partly due to the anxiety caused by her nerves and the strange room, and partly because of the heat. The bed linen felt hot and stiff, making it impossible for her to get comfortable and causing her to change position every three minutes, the blissful sleep far out of her reach.

She finally gave up as she heard the big clock downstairs strike midnight and sat up, pulling her knees up to her chest and tracing her sweaty palms down bare arms.

Why did she _ever_ agree on spending the last night before her wedding at Crawley House?

It was the _proper_ way to do these things, they told her—'they' being Lady Grantham, the Dowager Countess and Isobel—as if she and Charles hadn't committed any and all kinds of improprieties during their engagement, not to mention _before_ that! They insisted, though, insisted at length: and finally she yielded, and here she was, sleepless in a strange bed, in a strange house, empty of everyone save for Isobel, Mrs. Bird and a housemaid.

Not exactly how she'd hoped to spend this evening… but it couldn't be helped, now could it?

Just as she came to this sad conclusion and fluffed her pillow, preparing to make another futile attempt at falling asleep, somebody threw a small rock against her window.

Elsie jumped up and stifled a cry of alarm, silently berating herself for acting like a giddy schoolgirl. She got up and walked slowly to the window, pulling back the curtains to steal a peek outside.

It was a beautiful, moonlit night; the stars hung low and the air was warm, rich with scents of wild flowers. The guestroom window overlooked a small yard, and as Elsie leaned against the glass and looked down, she saw Charles standing on a patch of grass below her window, and looking up at her with a hopeful expression on his face.

She gasped and shook her head in awe. What was he doing here? Wasn't he supposed to have gone down to a pub with Mr. Molesley and Dr. Clarkson?...

Then she noticed a vaguely human-shaped lump sitting on the bench in the corner of the yard, and understood everything.

She quickly gestured Charles to wait, wrapped a thin shawl around her shoulders, and quietly crept down the stairs.

* * *

><p>"You should have known better than to let him work himself into such a state!" she scolded her fiancée in an agitated whisper, watching him put a dead-drunk Mr. Molesley into bed.<p>

"Richard thought he deserved to unwind a little…"

"That he did, and more," she quipped, crossing her arms as she leaned against the doorframe. "At least you had an _eventful_ evening…"

Charles turned to her and arched one eyebrow, gently steered her out of the poor valet's bedroom and into the corridor joining the servants' quarters and the second floor rooms. "Why so glum, dear? I thought you were going to have a party of your own?"

Elsie rolled her eyes and sighed in exasperation. "Isobel got a terrible headache, so I told her to take an aspirin and retire early. And since I didn't exactly fancy spending time in the kitchen—"

"…you ended up here, alone, and bored out of your mind."

"I suppose you might say that."

Charles took a moment to ponder on the matter, before giving his bride-to-be a positively wicked smile. "Are you telling me that Mrs. Crawley is sound asleep at the moment?..."

Elsie frowned suspiciously as Charles sauntered closer, his eyes gleaming dangerously in the light of the candle she held. "Charles Carson, what exactly are you implying?"

He extended his hand and extinguished the candle, leaving them in darkness, before wrapping his arms around her waist and pressing her into the wall. "I'm implying," he murmured into her hair, sliding his hands down to cup her bottom, "that I wouldn't want to see you looking stressed and _unsatisfied_ as I take you for my lawful wedded wife…"

She moaned into his shoulder and threw her arms around his neck, holding him even closer to her. "Even after everyone went to such lengths to ensure everything was absolutely prim and _proper_ between us tonight?..."

"Especially then, Elsie." He pulled back, resting his forehead against hers, and kissed her cheek ever so gently. "The decision, however, is yours. Should I go? Should I get back to my cold, lonely bed…?"

She knew he could tell she rolled her eyes, even though he couldn't see her do it. "Don't you _dare_ leaving me alone."

* * *

><p>He insisted on carrying her over the guest room threshold, and she giggled helplessly into his neck. "Aren't we doing this backwards?"<p>

"Not at all," he protested firmly, depositing her gently in the middle of the bed and divesting himself of his clothing with a speed that betrayed his urgency. "I shall be more than happy to carry you into whatever room you choose after we're married, and make love to you as Elsie _Carson_. As of now, I'm planning to have my wicked way with Elsie _Hughes_, if you don't mind."

"Not at all," she whispered against his lips, and pulled him into a deep, languid kiss.

They kissed for quite a while, slowly, passionately, not feeling the need to race against their own raging hormones. There was so much more they wanted to convey through this simple pleasure, so many wonderful, important feelings. Lust was but a part of it: a vital part, but by no means the only one. There was no rush, no instant need of gratification, of having the other person scratch an itch they couldn't reach by themselves.

They didn't talk. They knew everything already.

_You are so beautiful._

_You taste like the night._

_I have always wanted to…_

_I need you._

It was always so easy with Charles, easier than it should have been for a woman of a 'certain age' who'd spend most of her life alone, shying away from physical contact, from getting closer to another human being than absolutely necessary. Perhaps it was so because of the undivided attention he'd always given her, purring into her ear like an overgrown cat, all the while working on removing the last pieces of clothing that separated them.

"My love," he murmured against her skin. "My darling, darling Elsie."

"Charles." It could have been an answer to his words, a cry or a whisper. Her body arched against his as she slid her hands up his chest, scratching his nipples as he nipped gently at her collarbone.

She always took immense pleasure in touching him—his hair, his strong neck, his broad shoulders, his back, down to the round, firm buttocks. He wasn't a young man anymore, but it didn't mean he was any less fascinating; on the contrary: his body appeared to her as a long, complicated story: she wished to know it, and learn it by heart. What were a few wrinkles, a couple of additional pounds, or some flabby skin, compared to the wonder of being close to the man she loved, for whom she craved?

And besides—he was hot, strong and _firm_ in all the right places. And she knew it was all for her. It filled her with pride and made her head swim a little.

There was nothing else she could possibly need in this world.

Charles had always known instinctively what would bring her the greatest pleasure, and was now putting this knowledge to a good use, caressing her in all the right places: at the joint of her neck and shoulder, on the underside of her knee, a little to the left of her spine… She moaned into his hair and slid her hands down, touching him where he needed her most, making him thrust his hips forward and moan against her breast.

"Patience, you naughty boy," she scolded him with half-suppressed laughter.

Charles raised his head from her breast and caught her lower lip with his teeth, teasing it the way he knew she enjoyed. "Are you planning on punishing me, _Mrs. Hughes_?"

"I haven't decided yet… do you think you deserve to be punished?" She moved her hand even further down, determined to make him lose control completely—but paused in her tracks as he kissed her again, with even more fire than before, and returned the caress with astounding nimbleness.

The intensity of emotions he made her experience was almost frightening at times.

He touched her with reverence, kissing and stroking the most delicate parts of her, until she could take it no longer and pulled him back up, tugging at his hair as she wrapped her legs around his waist and tensed in a sweet, almost painful expectation before he finally pushed into her, filling her completely and deliciously, the way he always did.

She bit his shoulder to stop herself from crying out loud and waking the entire household, and he chuckled happily into her hair. "You could never be a punishment to me, Elsie," he said hoarsely, hooking his thumb under her right knee. "You are the most perfect reward I got in this life."

The rational, down-to-earth part of her mind wanted to point out that he was being overly sentimental—but that part had been seriously subdued by the more emotional and _feeling_ one; instead of telling him off, she laced her fingers through his and kissed him, letting go of all the propriety in the world and allowing him take her wherever he would.

Their sweat mixed. Their tongues duelled. They were breathing the same air. The tension grew, and Elsie felt like she couldn't breathe anymore—and _then_ Charles changed the rhythm and the angle just so, and…

Isobel could have marched right into the room and lectured her on the matters of tradition and propriety, and Elsie wouldn't have noticed anything at all.

"My beautiful girl," she heard Charles' breathy voice next to her ear and smiled, smoothing her hands over the skin of his back.

"I'm hardly a girl anymore."

"To me, you are."

"'The only girl in the world'?"

"Always."

* * *

><p>He kept his eyes on her as he dressed, a very smug smile on his face.<p>

"Do you know," he asked as he leaned down to kiss her again, "that after tomorrow I will never have to leave you alone in bed after we made love?"

She propped herself up on an elbow and smiled at him, raising her eyebrows. "Does it mean we'll stop doing all the things that might be qualified as 'improper'? Are we going to become yet another dull, married couple?"

"Oh, Elsie," he sighed happily, running his fingertips down her cheek, "I don't believe _anything_ could be dull in our life, not when I'm with you…"

* * *

><p>She let him out the back door, stealing one last kiss at the doorstep, and went back to bed, humming quietly under her breath, and positively vibrating with new energy. She had to admit—being able to have Charles to herself throughout the night, <em>and<em> the morning, would be quite an advantage.

"Tomorrow," she told herself as she stood by the window and watched Charles cross the yard and get out on the road.

She had a feeling she was going to be very, very happy as a married woman.

* * *

><p><strong>The End<strong>


End file.
